Scraping Grace
by Michelle Tooker


Morning's breath
lit everything red
—the black of your
jacket, the blue in
my eyes—all of it
crimson by the
slits in the blinds.

We were tired from
scraping grace—
me with a knife,
you with a spoon—
and sidestepping midnight
as we decided what
we needed to do.

Blankets curled around
our bodies like armor
we couldn't use,
and diamonds
threw light when
I passed my ring
back to you.

In our bloom of silence
the room changed shades,
and fireflies escaped
with the yellow light
that could’ve filled
our scrapes.






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